12 Step Programme
by Nonchey Niente
Summary: There is rhythm in everyone's life. When it gets interrupted, people suffer.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: The Twelve Step Programme  
**Fandom:** Law and Order: Criminal Intent  
**Characters:** The Genius and **her** Water carrier  
**Rating:** PG-13 (I think)

**Summary:** There is rhythm in everyone's life. When it gets interrupted, people suffer. Set in between "Purgatory" and "Betrayed"

**Disclaimer**: I do not own these characters, but bloody hell, do they own _me._

_**Author's Note**: This has __so been done before; everyone's doing it ... everyone who has ever written a fic about Goren and Eames is busy doing one now, trying to find ways to let the two characters get their groove (or rhythm) back. I am no different._

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Maintaining anger over any period of time takes a lot of energy, thinks Goren. He dumps an extra sugar in Eames's cup of coffee, figuring she could use the additional carbohydrates. He stirs for longer than is strictly necessary and walks back to their desks, his pace slow and measured, a condemned man moving towards the guillotine. Madame Defarge is there, knitting with ball-point pens and telephone records, and doesn't look up at him when he places the steaming liquid in front of her. Compulsively he turns the handle to be ergonomically comfortable for her peculiar, right-handed ways.

He sits. Shuffles a bit. Breathes.

"Eames," he says finally. "In the spirit of keeping you _fully_ apprised of everything I am doing - " he simply cannot keep the reproach out of his voice, despite huge effort, "I'm busy now thinking about my options."

"Options?" she says, not really looking at him. But then, she can appear to not be looking at him and yet know exactly what he is doing. She would have made a perfect mother to a mischievous three-year-old.

"Yes. My options."

No response. He hitches his leg up and rests his ankle on the opposing knee. Breathes.

"My first choice is to request a transfer," he says.

Finally, a response. She looks at him. "Where to?"

Goren almost laughs. God knows, he'd like to be able to laugh at this whole situation. Laughter would be a release, like an orgasm after a particularly lengthy time of abstinence. He shakes his head to dislodge the - entirely inappropriate - metaphor. "Um .. well. Not too many options there, truthfully. Traffic Control?" He's still trying to laugh but his smile vanishes abruptly. "How about Internal Affairs?"

Eames looks away at this, imagining suddenly how damaging that would be - not for him, but for half a dozen or so other officers she could think of off the top of her head.

"Or," he says, "I could leave the NYPD altogether. Set up on my own. Security consultant."

His brow furrows. He doesn't like that idea at all. "I could go back to the Academy, maybe. Teach."

Eames goes back to, apparently, ignoring him.

"I do have one other option - " he says, treading very carefully now. Her moods are like quicksand marshes, and he has no map. "I could stay here. Try and figure out how to regain your respect."

_(Breathe Goren, breathe.)_

She glances up at him, trying to gauge the depths of what he is saying.

"That's the option that frightens me the most," he says finally, allowing her a glimpse of his feelings. But he is talking to his kneecap.

After a moment or two, Eames opens her desk drawer and pulls out a pad of lined paper. She throws it down onto his desk, swiftly followed by a disposable ball-point pen. Not her good one, not the one he gave her on her birthday three years ago.

"Better get writing, then," she says.

Goren stares at the paper. Breathing suddenly doesn't really help any more.

/

Ross watches this little exchange - its content pretty clear through his glass walls from the body language of his two Heaviest Hitters - with real trepidation. It's time.

He leans out of his door frame and says, not unpleasantly, "Detectives? A word, please."

Goren gestures to the more comfortable of the two chairs in front of Ross's desk and waits until Eames has sat down before pulling up a smaller chair and perching precariously on it. Ross doesn't fail to notice this attitude of total deference, but isn't in the least bit surprised by it. He maintains the silence for as long as he can bear, hoping that the tension it causes will help add weight to what he is about to say. The lines in his face seem deeper and darker than usual.

This, thinks Eames morosely, is not going to be good. Her head hurts, as though there is a storm front moving through the Captain's office. Will her ears pop? Will there be thunder and lightening?

"OK." says Ross. He reaches for a folder on the bureau behind him. "OK. Detectives - let me get straight to the point. I want you to find a way to overcome your differences and begin working together again properly."

Eames hears Goren's intake of breath and she tenses reflexively.

"Uh, Captain - " he says.

"No, Goren. I do not want any kind of argument, reasoned or otherwise, from you."

"No, sir. I wasn't going to argue with you. But there is something I would like to say."

Ross is surprised by Goren's tone. He remains silent, looking at the bigger man, and Goren takes this as permission to carry on.

"Sir, I guess I might as well take this opportunity to give you this." Goren fiddles in his jacket pocket and takes out a neatly folded sheet of paper from Eames's pad. "It's ... it's a request for transfer out of Major Case."

Ross holds the piece of paper and stares at Goren. Eames wishes she was somewhere else. Anywhere else. Why does her partner have to be such a martyr, a prima donna? She wants to snort and curl her lip, but manages not to. There are other feelings inside her, rumbling around, adding to the volatile weather system. Out of habit, she ignores them. They'll change in a moment or two.

The old saying goes - If you don't like the weather in Ireland, just wait ten minutes.

Without really looking at what he is doing, Ross opens a desk drawer and sweeps the letter into it, seeming to dismiss it.

"Here," he says, almost conversationally. "I want you both to take a look at this." He picks up a large and over-stuffed file, held together by an enormous rubber band, filled with single photocopied sheets. He opens it, and begins systematically pulling out pieces of paper and slapping them on his desk, being careful to position them so that they are the right way up from his detectives' point of view.

They are top sheets of arrest records. Ross continues slapping the papers down on his desk, getting a rhythm going as he speaks.

_Slap, slap, slap._

"See these?" he says. _Slap, slap_. He's lecturing third-graders. "These are top copies of the jackets of every single criminal you two have nailed - together - since your time - together - on Major Case began. Together. "

_Slap, slap, slap_. They go on and on. Goren breathes. Eames watches, mesmerised by the beat. Ross must have gone through every single one of their case files - going back years - and copied the tops sheets from every one.

After an age, Ross reaches the end of the file. His desk is littered with an array of sad and vicious faces, testimony to the efficacy of Goren and Eames's work together.

Ross sits, loosens his tie, as though tired out by his efforts.

"So Detectives, I think your record speaks for itself. I won't give credence to any suggestions of splitting you up again. No way. I don't care what you have to do in order to get back in the saddle. If you can't sit down and simply talk to each other then ... I dunno - you can hire a psychic medium, go to marriage guidance, or take your case to the United Fucking Nations. Just go to a motel and get it out of your system - "

Goren jerks suddenly. Did the Captain really say that, or was it a voice in his head?

Ross ignores his twitchy detective and carries on. "You can send semaphore messages cocktail sticks for all I care. But get yourselves worked out, and fast. You think we can put murder cases on hold while we all sit around holding our breath waiting for you two? No. I want you to do this as quickly and as efficiently as possible, and without delay. You can take that as a direct order," he adds, looking pointedly at Eames.

Silence. The storm has veered off somewhere else.

"I want you two to suck it up, shake hands, get back to work."

Eames is distracted from looking at the pages on Ross's desk by a movement to her right. Goren has stood up and taken a step towards her and now - oh, Jeez, she cannot believe this - is holding out his hand. She sighs, knowing she's effectively trapped. Slowly she stands up and takes Goren's hand in her own ... almost meets his gaze, but her eyes slide to her hand instead. He is squeezing it imperceptibly, over and over again, his right thumb hidden from Ross's view.

"Dismissed, Detectives. I don't wanna see either of you in here again unless it's to add to this." And he gestures to the array on his desk.

/

So, they work. Sort of. It's still awkward, like they are both in a dance together, but hearing different pieces of music.

The elevator in the tenement block is out. It is stuck, not quite all the way down to the ground floor, and the doors keep opening half way and the closing again. Aimless, hopeless; like a sleepy fish dozing at the bottom of a tank.

Goren stares at the doors. It's another rhythm. He feels like he can relate to the elevator. Still stuck between floors. Trying to function properly, but not really. Not quite.

"Stairs," says Eames unnecessarily.

They plod. She taunts him by going up two at a time, at least for the first couple of floors, but he keeps plodding up thinking, that's what I feel like nowadays - P.C Plod, lumbering up concrete stairs in the wake of my younger, smarter, fitter partner. A partner who has just had TWO sugars in her coffee.

He pauses, getting his breath, working to banish the negative thoughts that are trying to trip him up.

"You know, " he says to her rapidly retreating ass, trying to draw her into conversation in an attempt to get her to slow down a bit, "When you busted into that room at the strip club and held a gun to my face, you said that if it had been any other cop in the world, I would be dead right now."

She slows slightly. Starts taking the stairs one at a time like a regular human being. He begins to catch her up.

" - and you're right. Of course. But think about this, Eames. Both the other men in that room were out of their heads on coke. You saw their tox screens, right?"

"What's your point?" she asks, without turning. He is gratified to hear that she is at least a little bit out of breath.

"My point," he says. "My point is, that if it had been either of the other two men in the room holding that gun and not me, then YOU would probably be dead right now."

She spins around, causing him to pull up abruptly to avoid bumping into her. She looks like she is about to rip into him again, but she remains silent.

"What?" he says. He was, after all, only making a point. She is fuming again, her nostrils flaring partly from the exertions of the stairs and partly from -

"You - " her voice tails off. She is suddenly taken by the fact that, because of the steps, she is now almost an inch taller than her partner. They are standing face to face but she is looking slightly down on him. It is unusual enough to make her lose her thread, something he doesn't fail to notice.

"What?" he says again, quietly.

She bows her head slightly and rests her forehead against his. It's about the exact point where her bullet would have entered his skull.

"I almost shot you," she whispers. "I almost fucking shot you."

Goren swallows. For once, he decides to say nothing. This is Alex's moment entirely.

_To Be Continued ..?_


	2. Chapter 2

-1_**The Twelve Step Programme. Part Two.**_

**Title**: The Twelve Step Programme Part Two.

**Fandom:** Law and Order: Criminal Intent

**Characters:** The Genius and **her** Water carrier

**Rating:** PG-13 (I think)

**Summary:** There is rhythm in everyone's life. When it gets interrupted, people suffer.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own these characters, but bloody hell, do they own _me._

_She bows her head slightly and rests her forehead against his. It's about the exact point where her bullet would have entered his skull._

"I almost shot you," she whispers. "I almost fucking shot you."

Their noses are actually touching. It ... tickles. All it would take is one slight adjustment to the angle, she thinks, he thinks, and then I would be able to kiss him, to kiss her. Just one extra degree of tilt, one way or the other.

Eames confronts this desire bleakly, ordering it back to wherever it came from. Goren on the other hand is unnerved, having spent years avoiding this kind of inappropriate intimacy with his fellow officer. He backs up suddenly, almost loses his footing, then throws himself forwards and up. A surge of adrenalin - fear? Lust? _What? What?!_ pushes him onwards. Now it is his turn to steam up the stairs two at a time, leaving Eames behind like the memory of a dream.

"Hey!" she yells. "Dammit Goren, quit running away all the time!" - and she sets off after him.

She finds her partner at the top of the stairs, outside the apartment they are supposed to be visiting. He's bent over, his hands braced above his knees in an attitude of a defeated athlete.

"What exactly are you trying to prove? Or are you in training for something?"

No reply. They both stop for a moment, each concentrating on their own laboured breathing. The sound echoes dully around the concrete walls, which are garlanded with nameless stains and dressed with odours that even Goren doesn't want to identify. Eames pushes past her stricken partner and raps her knuckles hard on the apartment door.

No one home, it seems. She tries again. She takes out her phone and calls a number. They can hear it ringing inside the apartment, and after a long while, an answer phone picks up. The witness-bird has flown her nest.

Eames is one step behind disgusted. "This never happens on TV, " she says. "Now what?"

Goren is still deep-breathing.

"We'll wait," she says, looking at him, a little kindness seeping into the corners of her voice.

Regardless of the dirt, Goren eases himself down onto the top step. Its either that or fall downstairs. He's not feeling at all good. Eames joins him, making a note of the time, thinking about calling it in to the dispatcher and then deciding not to bother.

"And another thing - " he says suddenly, as though there had been no interruption to their conversation whatsoever. He points a finger authoritatively, daring her to even think of interrupting him. "In those five months when I was at home, you made nineteen arrests, Eames. Nineteen. On your own, or with some nameless rookie in tow. Without a partner. Without ... me."

"How in the hell do you know that?"

"What, you think Ross is the only one knows how to use a data base? My mother was a librarian - go figure. So that crack about my being the genius and you only carrying my water is also a crock of shit."

She looks at him, shocked to hear him swear. He doesn't, very often. But she regroups quickly and snarls, "Oh, how _refreshing,_ to have you back on my case."

"No. I'm just setting the record to rights. You were mad when you said those things to me. Not thinking straight."

And she is mad again, Goren. Her eyes widen, her lips purse. Watch it buddy; you are about to get your ears boxed. Breathe!

He carries on talking quickly, wanting to get it all over and done with. Words tumble out of him in fits and starts, like little waves breaking on a shore in the wake of a passing ship.

"Sure ... sure I would have liked to have been reinstated in a more ... conventional manner. I'd of loved to have marched in one Monday morning with a big grin and an even bigger box of bakery saying, 'Didja miss me? Didja?' . But that was never going to happen Eames. And I was getting desperate."

Eames maintains her silence, with difficulty, for a little while longer. She uses the time to try and imagine what it must be like to be Bobby Goren, and 'desperate'. It isn't a pretty thought. In fact, it kind of scares her. In spite of his reassuring bulk, he looks small and rather vulnerable to her suddenly, and she wonders if she is gaining the high ground again.

He asks, "Why did you say all my wounds are self inflicted?"

"Did you have a tape recorder running in there or something?"

He just looks at her, frowning slightly. She must realise that he heard every single word she said and considered it important enough to remember verbatim. Mustn't she?

"You ... I meant that you allowed your family problems to impact on your work. And therefore, mine. Too much."

Goren nods, gazing at an imaginary spot in the middle distance. "So ... What would you have done in my situation, do you think?" he asks.

Eames engages in what Goren recognises as classic distraction activity - she begins fussing and picking at an imaginary blemish on her jeans. She doesn't want to answer that question, and her body language is shouting about it from the rooftops. He waits. And waits. He wants to still her restless fingers, cover them with his own, get her to focus. But if he touches her again, will it not simply distract her?

She looks very small and rather vulnerable to him suddenly, and he wonders if he is gaining the high ground again.

Eventually Eames knows she has to answer. They are both under orders to work this out, after all. If what she says makes things worse, she can always adjust her internal blame system to fire its missiles at Ross.

"I never even knew what your situation WAS," she says quietly. "You would never tell me."

"There are good reasons for that."

"Oh, for sure." She is exasperated again. It feels good. It feels familiar. It is so easy for her to reduce Goren's behaviour to a cliché, a parody of himself.

"Eames, I'm serious." It's Goren's turn to look uncomfortable. He just hates talking like this with Eames. Just because she is female - _'sensitive, approachable, a good listener' - _doesn't mean she needs to be burdened with the details of his family's dysfunction. Guys don't talk to each other about stuff like that. Why should he talk to her about it? Just because she is a woman?

_O-ho, nice of you to notice that, Goren. Now shuddup about your sick mom and your sicker brother already._

"Bobby, you kept on working and working and working when really, you should eased up for a while. Taken vacation time, call it what you like."

"But I like working. It defines me."

"No, see - your reasons for _not_ working are what define you now, can't you get that?"

Goren shifts uncomfortably. The cold of the concrete step beginning to seep into his buttocks, just as the coldness of Eames's judgement curls its fingers around his stomach.

Something occurs to him.

"Do you remember how you felt in the last few days before you gave birth?"

"Yes, I remember."

"What was it like?"

A big sigh. Oh, a very big sigh.

"Well, I could hardly move off the couch. I had to pee at least once every forty minutes. I had heartburn every waking moment. I found it hard to breathe. I couldn't sleep lying down, I could only cat nap in a chair. Couldn't drive anywhere because of it."

"You never told me any of this. Did you feel scared?"

"Of what?"

"The birth."

"Well - "

"Be honest."

"Yes, I was scared. I guess. It was the not knowing that was getting to me. Not knowing when it would start or how long it would last or how much it would hurt or would it all be OK ... "

Goren nods sagely. He understands this bit. He says, "So if you had gone past the time when the baby was due - how would that have felt?"

"I think I'd a gone nuts. I was climbing the walls. I had an induction date booked and everything."

"Induction? You mean, where they use medical intervention to help you get the baby born?"

"Yeah. Basically."

"And if it had come to that, would you have taken your paediatrician's advice without question?"

She looks at him directly for the first time. His face is an open book. She sees exactly where he is going with this. Damn. _Damn._

"I see what you're suggesting," she says slowly. "You're comparing what happened to you ... to a pregnant woman going over term and having an induction."

"Imagine those last seven days of your pregnancy again, Eames. Think about how you felt, what it was like. Now stretch those seven days into _five months_. Then you will get an idea of what the suspension was like for me."

"My God," says Eames in awe. "Ross was your midwife!"

Goren laughs at this in spite of himself. He gives her a little frown, shakes his head admonishingly, says, "Eww."

Then he's serious again. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you what was going on with me. I was following the doctor's orders."

"I guess I know that. But it ... it felt like you didn't consider me your partner any more."

He waits, thinking she is going to say more. Nothing comes. He bends and twists awkwardly so as to see her face. Her brows have drawn together in two lines like fresh dug graves, side by side.

"Eames..?"

His actual thoughts are: 'To hell with it. This isn't exactly throwing my car keys in a salad bowl. I've known this woman seven years.' And, with more gentleness that she ever would have credited him with he pulls her head up, kisses her gently, right between the eyes.

It's about the exact point where his bullet would have entered her skull.

Fin.


End file.
